South Patty's Day
by mendsoupy
Summary: The kids of South Park High try to live through the most treacherous holiday of them all. Season 14 whut whut


South Patty's Day

Yo! Happy day-on-which-one-race-is-elevated-above-all-others day! Yes, I said "day" twice, but I can make mistakes today, because I'm Irish and therefore kickass or something.

Anyway, this year's St. Patrick's Day obviously holds a special significance for all us crazy-ass South Parketeers, so why not honor that with some fic? Our little TV show's turning 14*, guys; oh, how quickly they grow. This is the longest thing I've ever written, which is strange, since it was originally going to be a one-panel comic. I'm not even joking. But then I sat down this week and regurgitated all of this crap, which surprised me, so I hope someone out there finds some entertainment in it. Bottom o' the evening to all y'all.

*Unless you say it turned 1 year old at the end of season 1, and so on, in which case it won't turn 14 until November or something. At this point, I have put too much thought into things that deserve no thought, and I am sad.

---

The problem with South Park was that it took tradition too far. Stan didn't mean to imply that the town had only one problem, of course. But as he trudged his way through the snow drifts that were dyed green --- _green_, "because of the lack of noteworthy river systems", the mayor had stated, though Stan was not as concerned with the why as the _how_ --- he wondered if that might be its biggest flaw.

Maybe a bigger flaw was that there was something in the water. But, Stan conceded, that something was probably green dye. Every March 17th at least. South Park loved its Saint Patrick's Day.

You could call the attention to custom conservative, if public whore-offs fit your model of conservatism.

The bus stop was a whirlwind of green. As Stan drew nearer, he identified one figure as South Park High's very own Irish population, Kenny McCormick, and the other as Kyle Broflovski, both of whom were tussling in a manmade flurry. Between them was Kyle's green hat. As usual, it was causing drama.

Kenny was shouting things like:

"CAN'T - HAVE - HAT, TODAY, KYLE!"

And Kyle was shrieking back things like:

"NEED HAT! NEED HAT! YAAAAA"

And Stan thanked the muffling effects of the snow as he stood a few feet away, silently contemplating the upcoming day. He probably wouldn't like it, he decided. Then his thoughts drifted towards bagels, like the bagels he had had for breakfast, and how they could function as wheels, and whether you could build a car out of bagel or if doing so would disqualify it as a bagel when suddenly Kyle successfully tore the ushanka from Kenny's hands and firmly relocated it over his head.

"Ah - HA!" he said, pumping both arms up in victory.

Kenny let out a cry of such heartrending, impassioned grief that Stan had a mental flash of Darth Vader. Except Darth Vader was swearing, and covered in green snow. Okay, it's time to wake the fuck up, said a part of Stan's brain.

"You can't do this to me, Kyle!" Kenny moaned, batting uselessly at Kyle's head, where his hat was locked firmly under his arms. "You're denying me my one shot at sexual fulfillment!"

"I don't care if you have some kind of perverse desire to pinch me, Kenny, the hat stays on today!"

"I don't _want_ to pinch you!"

"Then why do you do it all the time?" wailed Kyle.

"Because it's hilarious how pissed off you get!"

"I do NOT get pissed off!!"

The ensuing silence between them radiated such heated anger it could have popped corn.

Kenny fumed a little before he began to speak. "It's not that your hat is _green_," he said, his voice now having down-shifted into a slow and didactic tone, "it's that you look fucking _Irish_ without it."

"This I know." Kyle glared at Kenny; he was trying to assume an intimidating pose despite the awkward location of his arms.

"So take it off! You know how things are; everyone'll think you're some Irishman. The chicks will flock to you and the guys will buy you beer!"

"I don't want chicks and beer!"

"I know!"

Stan's head was throbbing. "Wait, Kenny," he finally broke in, "why do you suddenly want _Kyle_ to get all the girls today? I mean, I'd think..." his eyes moved down to Kenny's sweatshirt, on which he'd scrawled in sharpie "KISS ME, I'M IRISH" with an arrow pointing down towards his pants, accompanied by "(and so is this!)". It took special effort for Kenny to bewilder his friends with his blatant displays of overt sexuality, but even Stan was faltering at this.

"...it just seems sort of counterintuitive, for you."

Kenny huffed and met Stan's eyes. "You'd think so. But nobody notices the damn shirts," he said, gesturing at his chest, "nobody believes me! So I figure, if I stick by Kyle's side, and _he_ keeps deflecting all the attention..." Kenny trailed off.

Logically, Kenny ought to have been the most famous person in South Park. He had his own town square and private suite in Hell, not to mention that his family was the only source of 100% Irish blood in town. Saint Patrick's Day might as well have been called "Envy the McCormicks (for once) Day". Instead, Kenny was completely ignored on the one day he deserved otherwise. It made no sense - Kenny had the dirtiest mind, the best singing voice, a ferocious dose of charisma, an understanding of the true nature of life and death - and still he managed to fall under the radar, despite his best attempts. It was an inexplicable reputation for an equally inexplicable person.

"Oh," said Kyle, now with all the added empathy and understanding he had gleaned from Kenny's tragic debacle. "Tough."

Like the calm before a storm, Stan could sense it was only a matter of seconds before history repeated itself.

"Take the hat off."

"No."

"Not pro, Kyle. Give me the hat."

"NO."

"TAKE YOUR HAT OFF FOR THE QUEEN," Kenny yelled back, lunging for the earflaps.

It was immediately after Kyle responded "WHAT QUEEN?!", his arms flailing like windmills of terror, that Cartman chose to walk up, dressed in drag, as he tended to be.

The three saner boys stopped to look at Cartman. Kyle said, "Oh."

"Sup, heathen fags," said Cartman, who was slightly muffled.

The abundance of long silences between statements this morning, thought Stan, was partly attributable to everyone's drowsiness, but most due to the fact that everyone was being batshit towards one another. Both of these things were normal.

"What is that," stated Kenny.

"This, Kenny, is a hijab. It is the customary clothing of any respectable Muslim wife who knows her place," replied Cartman. He was clearly happy to be providing edifying material to his friends, and was humming a little and bobbing on his feet impatiently as he stared off at the horizon.

Kyle pondered; should he unleash venom upon his clearly unbalanced friend, or --- "Hey Kenny, will you go back to fighting me over my hat, please."

"Fair enough."

When the bus came, Kenny grouchily clambered up the steps first, growling in indignation at his own failure. Before Cartman had a chance to board, Stan spoke.

"Cartman, I can understand the green, but I don't understand why you'd wear a hijab to school."

Cartman's eyes, already heavy with eyeshadow and liner, darkened. "Oh, you'll see. All will be made clear soon enough."

They watched his swaddled, waddling figure ascend the bus stairs, looking very much like an avocado.

"I can't decide whether to feel offended or amused," said Kyle to Stan. Stan sighed and scratched at his arm.

"You know, I get that feeling a lot, living in South Park."

---

The bus doors opened to the wail of ambulance sirens. A sobbing Butters was escorted onto a gurney by medical specialists, who hurriedly placed his over-pinched form into the back of the ambulance before the other students were allowed to exit.

"You'd think he would've known not to wear turquoise. It's like a slap in the face to green," said a remorseless Craig as he pushed through the crowd. Kyle shook his head at that and gave Stan a sarcastic, if sympathetic, smile. "Natural selection at work."

"Yeah, this school must really love science, or something."

They pushed through the double doors and surveyed the situation. The school wasn't decorated for St. Patrick's Day, but it didn't have to be; all around them was a sea of green, sort of like the actual sea, which is green. It should be noted that Kyle still had one arm clamped over his head. "Given those two choices, I think the answer is 'something'," he said.

Kenny hadn't been off; if you looked around the commons, you could see an accumulation of frothing green teenagers around those poor souls blessed with red hair. They looked like flecks of blood being swarmed to by piranhas. Stan felt a twinge of fear for his best friend and drew a little nearer.

"Dude, wasn't Cartman going on about anti-ginger awareness a few weeks ago, and how he planned to revolutionize St. Patrick's Day against the Irish, or something?"

"You know, I think he was," said Kyle, as he joined Stan on a slow trek toward the English department. "Do you think he lost interest?"

"...does that sound like Cartman?" responded Stan, as he caught sight of the strangely attired boy a few yards off. He was clearly in a hurry; to where, Stan didn't care. He'd probably find out later, if Cartman's promise was to come true.

"True. He probably found some new, stupider cause."

At the door to Kyle's AP Lang class, Stan stopped him. "Dude, I have a bunch of spares of these," he said to Kyle, brandishing his wrist, "in case you, you know, lose your hat."

"I don't need a green bracelet, Stan."

"They're _masculine_ _wrist-encirclers_," he replied. Kyle stared at him until he cracked into a grin. "Okay, okay, well that's what Clyde said when he gave me them. But you should call them life-savers, today."

Kyle shook his head and strode determinedly past Stan into the class. "No need. Kenny's NOT going to win."

---

Halfway through third period, it was clear that Kenny had won. He ran hooting and cheering past Stan's Chemistry classroom with Kyle's hat in his hands and a fishing rod, can of pepper spray, ripped bag of marbles, and Scott Malkinson in tow. Clearly it had taken a lot of effort. Even though Stan sided, of course, with Kyle, he couldn't help but respect Kenny's frightening perseverance.

The chemistry teacher was a woman with a thick Russian accent and a timid demeanor. Apparently, the principal had mandated that all the teachers' lessons deal with St. Patrick's Day in some tangential way, so she had altered today's experiments to incorporate green dye, for fear of being fired. It wasn't very interesting to titrate green dye into water, and water into green dye, for an entire class, but then again it felt about as purposeful as any normal Chemistry class.

Token was dully jotting coordinates (greenness as a function of dye) onto his and Stan's lab paper. Stan and Token couldn't really stand talking to each other for very long; they had that sort of relationship where they acted amiably towards one another but their conversations never extended beyond the forecast and the more banal school-wide events. Since their daily conversation had already reached its limit

("Oh, it's Saint Patrick's Day."

"So it is! Ha ha"

"Ha ha"

"So yeah.")

Stan was now eavesdropping on the banter between Token and Clyde. Clyde's lab partner, Powder, was working industriously on her own paper, which must have been difficult with a football helmet on. She had apparently picked the same strategy as Kyle.

Token was currently laughing. "Clyde, man, you have just the worst taste in music."

"No, you just don't get it. You don't understand music, Token."

"Of course I don't," he scoffed, amusement in his eyes.

"I bet Stan gets it; hey Stan, Stan!"

"Buh?"

"Are you gonna go to the Shamrock tour? Nickelback's headlining; they fucking _shred_."

Stan was a little taken aback by his sudden inclusion. "Uh, I dunno... wait, what's the tour called again?"

"Even if they were good bands," butted Token, "it still makes no sense that they'd pick St. Patrick's Day to celebrate. It's like the least badass of all the holidays."

Clyde looked ruffled, so he seized the change in topic. "...what about Boxing Day?"

"No one even knows what that is."

"Guy Fawkes Day?"

"Woah, now that would be cool..."

And Stan faded out into a world of bubbling green dye, and remained there until something caught his ear.

"So Wendy basically threatened to murder me if I didn't wear green today."

"Wait, Wendy? Did you break it off with Marina?"

"Hey, just because Marina's slowly driving me crazy doesn't mean I'm breaking up with her yet," laughed Token.

Clyde was systematically covering his hand in green dye, to pass time. "Since when does Wendy go ballistic over people's clothes?"

"I agreed to help her with the benefit effort," said Token. "I forgot to wear any of the pins, though; if she sees me, she'll kill me."

"Oh yeah, that stupid fundraiser?"

"It's really not stupid." Tokens eyes flashed.

"Oh, sorry. Still have a thing for her?" Clyde said, smirking down at his hand.

There was an eerie silence. Out of the corner of his eye Stan saw Token elbow Clyde hard. "_Dude._"

"What?" he cried, immediately indignant, and then he met eyes with Stan.

"...Oh."

Stan jerked his eyes away, feeling rather squirmy and red in the face. He wasn't sure how to react; technically, he and Wendy had never broken up, and they hadn't seen anyone else since their last reunion in Freshman year, but their relationships had a tendency to peter out, slowly. Then one of them (see: Wendy) would break off the relationship, and the other (see: Stan) would wail and mope and curse their own stupidity for a week or so. A few months later, the cycle would repeat. They were overdue for a breakup, right now; honestly, Stan was just desperate for Wendy to get it over with, so they could get on with their lives. Until the next make-up session, of course.

He was deep in a confused funk even as the teacher collected the labs, as he and Token began to clean up their station, as several hundred leprechauns poofed into existence because Bebe hadn't followed the instructions properly, and as the entire class ran screaming from the chemistry room, leprechauns behind them and their freedom ahead, as the bell rang for lunch.

---

Stan thought he knew Kyle better than he knew himself, but sometimes the boy acted in a way that even he hadn't anticipated. They were sitting next to each other at the lunch table. Kyle was holding a mild discussion with Stan on his latest writing assignment while, simultaneously, he fended off an onslaught of inquisitive hands and faces with two plastic butter knives whirling violently in his hands. Truly, it was an impressive sight.

"...so he said we're free to critique the book if we want but of course GODDAMN IT I'M NOT IRISH it would be asking for a bad grade, since Mr. Orson made it perfectly clear that GO THE FUCK AWAY YOU STALKERS it's one of his favorite books; honestly, the last time I did exactly what he said we could, and complained about how the writing was too gimmicky DIDN'T YOU HEAR CARTMAN, I'M A FUCKING JEW hey, guess what, it hurt my grade; barely scraped an A and his edits were less than glowing."

"Mm-hmm." Kyle clearly wasn't getting any lunch into his mouth, with his hands being occupied and all; Stan wondered whether he should spoon feed the poor kid.

In the absence of Cartman and Kenny, the opposite side of the table was occupied by Craig, Tweek, and Kevin. The blue-hatted boy cast disapproving eyes at Kyle's display, chewing on a cheese sandwich.

"I don't get why they're fawning over you," he said at Kyle.

"Because they're idiots," the boy snapped back, his knives spinning like batons.

"Well, yeah, but I mean," Craig paused for another bite, "...you aren't even wearing green. They should be pinching you."

Kyle laughed hollowly. "Yeah, well, they're not; though I think I'd almost prefer that."

"Dude, shut up," Stan shot to Craig, "his eyes are green."

"AAHH!! That doesn't count!! NGH."

"Yes, that's right, Tweek," said Craig, patting the blond on the back. Apparently, Craig had christened himself the sheriff of green clothes, or something, and Tweek was his subordinate. Craig must've struck fear into Tweek's heart, because the frazzled boy was fully decked out in green, like a Christmas tree with a spiky yellow star on top.

Stan rolled his eyes. "Just get the stick out of your ass, Craig. It's a stupid holiday."

Kevin, meanwhile, was gawking at Kyle like he'd found god. "Hey, do you wanna join my Star Wars LARPers group?"

Kyle didn't have a chance to answer, outside of a cocked eyebrow, because he was suddenly wrapped up in Kenny's arms.

"EHEYHEYHEYHEY KYLE, WOAH, WOULD YOU LOOK AT ALL THAT ATTENTION YOU HAVE," he hollered, to make himself heard over the gaggle of overexcited, underbrained high schoolers. Kyle winced.

"SHAME YOU AREN'T EVEN IRISH THOUGH," Kenny continued to bellow, winding around the boy until very little of him could be seen. "IF ONLY THESE GIRLS KNEW THEY COULD GET THEIR HANDS ON A REAL IRISH PERSON, SUCH AS MYSELF."

This was enough to get the crowd's attention. One girl piped up: "What, really?"

"Yes, ladies; one hundred percent real, authentic, all-American Irish. Kyle here's just a Jewish fluke."

They digested this. "So why isn't your hair red?" said a generic blonde freshman.

Kenny laughed. "It just isn't!"

The vibe darkened. "No, really, how can you _not_ have red hair."

Kenny felt more nervous now; clearly these chicks couldn't wrap their minds around an Irishman who didn't fit the stereotype.

"Because I... bleached it."

The crowd was wary. Somewhere under Kenny's torso, Kyle meeped fearfully.

"Also, I have a potato," Kenny said, holding up a potato.

The resulting squealing and shrieking of female throats was too awful to capture in words; suffice to say Kenny was dragged away from Kyle and sucked into an orgy of Irish-based excitement. There was beer, and squeeing, and Irish dance music (inexplicably) as the frenzied cluster migrated away.

Kyle was quivering slightly, curled into himself. Rather awkwardly, Stan folded him into his arms. Craig had chosen to ignore the whole Kenny scene and was informing Tweek of what did and didn't qualify as green clothing. Tweek was absorbing every word as if his life depended on it, and it probably did, with people as anal as Craig around.

"Today really sucks balls," Stan said by way of soothing Kyle.

Kyle sniffed. "No, this whole school is just stupid." He straightened up and managed a shaky smile. "Wanna ditch this joint?"

"Dude, you haven't eaten anything yet."

Kyle firmly clamped his hands around half of his pita sandwich, stuffed it into his mouth, balled up the rest of his lunch, tossed it expertly into a nearby trashcan, and turned to face Stan again, eyebrows raised.

"'K. Let's go."

---

What started as a lame way to pass time ended up the most thrillingly perplexing puzzle of Stan's high school career, second only to the circuits unit in Physics. It had started as an off-handed comment when Kyle said

"Heh, hey, that's the same pin Bebe was wearing,"

shortly followed by

"Look! There's tons of people wearing those things. Do you think they handed them out?"

and then

"Freakin' everyone's got those pins on!"

to which Stan added

"And lollipops for some reason."

which struck a chord of realization in both boys, and they swiveled to face each other, determination in their eyes.

"We are finding the source of this," declared Stan.

And because they both were buzzing a little off the craziness that had infected the school, this was, to them, the most tantalizing idea of the day --- as long as it was to be accomplished in the most convoluted way possible. After all, they had a whole lunch period to fill.

Soon, Stan and Kyle were frenetically scouting out clusters of pin-wearing lollipop-suckers in a desperate race against their own sanity.

"LOOK!" Kyle shouted, "the concentration's greater near the science hallway!!" Stan let out a feral growl and barreled in that general direction, Kyle linked behind him by an arm. Twenty feet, thirty feet - then he hit a dead stop, swinging Kyle's body out in front. "NO, look!" he yelled, pointing at some pin-wearers. "They're coming from upstairs. THEY'RE COMING FROM UPSTAIRS, KYLE."

Kyle all but screamed his approval and then the two boys were fiercely shoving their way up a crowded stairwell.

"TO THE LEFT!"

dashdashdashdash

"NO, THERE'S MORE THIS WAY!"

screechdashdashdash

"If you want a lollipop, Wendy's giving them out over there," said a helpful junior, though by the time he said it Stan and Kyle were already half a hallway away, shrieking their hearts out.

"What - now?!" panted Stan, temporarily paused before a large open space that was overflowing with green, lemming-like high schoolers.

Kyle gulped down breaths, clinging to Stan as he cast fearful eyes over the jumble of students.

Overcome with feeling, Stan wailed out a dramatic "There's too many!! THERE'S TOO DAMN MANY!" and then Kyle gripped his arms, and was shouting into his face.

"We CAN'T lose the trail, Stan! WE CAN'T LET THEM WIN!"

"Kyle, Stan! Hi! Have you heard of my-"

"RROAAAUUWGHHH," Stan and Kyle simultaneously bellowed at Wendy, who suddenly felt her heart clenched by an icy hand of fear. Kyle had Stan in some kind of death grip, and there appeared to be tears edging their way out of both boys' eyes. A pause.

Kyle was the first to regain composure. "Oh, hey Wendy, what are you doing here?"

Wendy had to shake herself out of bewilderment before she, too, could compose an answer.

"Um. Did you hear about the Iran benefit I've set up?" She gestured to a table, surrounded by banners and fliers, that was about ten feet away from the threesome. "We're giving out pins and candy, if you're interested."

"Oh. That sounds okay, I guess." They obediently followed Wendy to the set-up, whereupon she situated herself behind the table and cast Kyle a smirk.

"Glad I've got your approval." She pulled out two pins and lollipops as she explained, with practiced perfection, exactly what she was doing.

"Every March, we South Park residents gather to celebrate and even deify the culture of Ireland, on this day, Saint Patrick's Day. The members of the SPAIR - um, that's South Park Association for Irani Rights - formally propose we shift our gaze toward a country more deserving of our prosperous nation's privileged attention. Since the 1980s, Iran has been devastatingly devoid of women's rights and personal freedoms, resulting in harsh crackdowns and police brutality in response to activities we Americans take for granted. Imagine being arrested simply for your internet browsing habits, or revealing clothing. If this day is to be spent looking across the borders to learn of foreign affairs, then ---

"--- well, normally I'd give you the whole spiel, but I'll go easy on you two," Wendy concluded, smiling at Kyle, who jolted out of a daze.

"Oh. Wow, that's... quite ambitious," he said. It was a true for most everything Wendy did. He wondered vaguely how anyone could have as much passion in them as Wendy had for just about every cause that was out there, and then some.

"Thanks," she said, and then injected a slight plea into her tone: "You wouldn't have anything to spare for the fund jar, would you?"

Said jar was looking very hungry, with maybe five dollars in its glass belly. Stan glanced at Kyle, who looked back rather guiltily. He could feel the weight of four quarters in his jean pocket, but he kind of had vending machine-related plans for them. Running around like a maniac makes you thirsty.

"It's okay, anyway," said Wendy, quickly recovering from hope. "I never expected to get donations today anyway. It's all about awareness. Getting people to think against the grain."

"Thinking? That sounds painful," said Stan, grinning to Wendy. Then it occurred to him that he was grinning at Wendy, his four-times-ex, five-times-girlfriend, all-times-source of overwhelming self doubt and queasy confusion. Stan tried not to let the fizzling in his stomach show on his face and decided he was out of the conversation.

All this inner turmoil went unnoticed by Wendy and Kyle. "So," said Kyle, "are you actually trying to replace the Ireland part of Saint Patrick's Day with Iran?" He sounded more than a little dubious.

Wendy nodded. "Locally, at least. But media attention would be nice, so we could get a nationwide movement going."

"But why today?" Kyle said, industriously reducing the size of his lollipop. "Why not Easter or something?"

"Because the one year I tried to spread awareness of the Egg Industry's corruption on Easter, I ended up being stalked by a bunch of men in bunny suits. And anyway, green."

"Green?"

"Green. Iran. Green. Hey kid!" she called out, cupping her hands into an amplifier.

A youngish boy in a green shirt twisted to face the source of the call and was intimidated to find a girl striding briskly towards him, black hair rippling behind her like a storm cloud.

Upon her arrival, she announced: "Thank you for supporting Iran!"

The boy stared. "What?"

"Your shirt! You're wearing green for Iran!"

"I am?"

"Yes! Please take this pin and lollipop as tokens of your support for and solidarity with the Iranian cause!"

She forced the items into his hands. He looked first at the pin, then at the lollipop. "Oh, okay!" He slapped on the pin and ran to find his friends. "Hey guys! Green for Iran!" he called, holding out the lollipop like it was a carrot on a stick. Wendy turned to Kyle, her eyes glinting.

"And that's how you revolutionize a holiday." Her face immediately soured. "Clyde. Clyde, you've already gotten a lollipop. Give it." Clyde had seemingly materialized out of nowhere and was giving Wendy an impassive stare, the offending candy gripped tightly in his hand.

"No. I need it for nourishment."

As she sorted him out, Kyle pondered the unexpected addition to the holiday. Frankly, he was impressed, though he failed to see how Wendy had achieved anything besides a free morale-boost for ninety percent of the student body.

"You need to take a pin with your lollipop."

"Okay. I'll take another pin. I'll take fifty pins."

Stan was pondering whether or not Wendy was subtly signaling that she wanted to break up. Maybe the lollipops represented her compacted and hard emotions, or, or Iran suggested the turmoil of their relationship, or Clyde represented weariness... _why are you playing these mind games, Wendy?! Just come out and say it already!_

"And wear them, you have to wear them, Clyde."

"K."

Kyle noticed Stan was lost in thought and wearing a tortured expression. He tried to lighten the mood by flicking his lollipop stick with a finger. Stan blinked with a start and stared, confused, at the air in front of his face before he made the connection and looked to Kyle. Kyle sniggered. Stan felt his mouth form a sheepish grin.

Wendy turned back to Kyle, heaving a sigh. "Some people."

"Need us to do anything?"

She prodded her chin. "I guess I'm having some problems enlisting help. You haven't seen Token, have you? I was counting on him to spread the word."

"No, sorry," said Kyle. He had a sudden flash of recognition. "Hey! Have you had Cartman drop by or something? He was acting kinda weird this mo-"

He cut himself off when he noticed Wendy giving him a look of searing hatred. Except it wasn't directed at Kyle; her eyes were unfocused as if there were some invisible ghost behind him who deserved the full brunt of Wendy's glare.

"Yes. I have had Cartman drop by," she said through teeth. "And I do have a job for you. Please castrate him, and throw his balls to a pack of wolves."

She returned her eyes to a stack of papers and vigorously jarred them up and down on the table, in an apparent attempt to straighten them that only succeeded in making dog-ears and scuffs.

"We'll, uh. Keep that in mind."

Wendy jetted out of her seat. "Well! See you! Ah, haha," she laughed into her palm, seeing Kyle's startled reaction, "I'm sorry, I need to calm down, don't I?"

He nodded and he and Stan began to distance themselves as Wendy continued,

"It's not like one idiot can ruin my whole plan, especially not one like Cartman, because he's just some fat stupid dumbass no one listens to anyway ISN'T THAT RIGHT?!"

She wheeled around to face Clyde, who had a lollipop stuffed in his cheek.

"...can I have another?"

---

"I don't get it. It's wrong. How else can I put it; that's all it is."

"It's immoral is what it is! Centuries of custom are reduced to THIS?"

"Yeah. It's like dress codes mean nothing to these people. No decency. Just some dumb desire for rebellion."

Kenny took a swig from his beer can as he looked up to the blue hatted boy with whom he suddenly, and unexpectedly, had a lot in common.

"That must be it, right? I mean," Kenny looked down at his beer and marker stained sweatshirt, "what reasonably het girl, with reasonable sexual needs, would resist an Irish dude like me?"

"And it's so sudden!" moaned Craig. "The finer points of the St. Patrick's dress policy have gone down the tubes. Doesn't matter, just as long as you've got something to do with 'Iran' on your clothes."

"Sudden is right; man, I'm going to have blue balls for _forever_." He finished up the beer and peered into it, hoping to find some untapped reservoir. The advertising said it was green, but Kenny wouldn't know, since he hadn't let a single drop stray from its path to his mouth.

Craig hung his head in his hands. "And suddenly I'm the freak. I'm the one who has to sit behind the school during sixth period and hang out with the alcoholic poor kid."

Kenny patted Craig softly on the shoulder in drunken sympathy.

---

It was crack. Sweet, priceless, costless crack. When Eric Cartman was actively hating someone, he had the time of his life - he turned it into a game, where the goal was to get as much reciprocated ire shooting back in his direction as possible. That was the zone - a slip 'n' slide of pure loathing, so selfish and gleeful.

Happy, hateful dreams bubbled in his head as he leaned back in his chair. It was so simple: he had the power to bring out the worst in people, summon their internal carnal energies, and all he had to do was wear some ridiculous outfits. Cartman was truly his mother's child.

Wendy knew Cartman would be sitting in the dead center of the front row of her Foreign Relations elective. She knew she should just walk in briskly and situate herself in the back corner without so much as a glance at him. So when she opened the door and paused, staring at the fat boy long enough for him give her a venomously sweet smile behind his lustrous veil, and when she responded with a glare that he'd probably relish for the rest of the week, Wendy hated herself more than anything in the world.

"Oh, good afternoon, Wendy," said Cartman as she landed with a huff in her assigned seat, which was woefully close to his. "I'm sorry you're late; Ms. Beany was just going over some of the more fascinating aspects of Irish culture."

"That's right Eric. So class, that's basically what's up with the whole potato thing." Despite her lack of formal rhetoric skills, Ms. Beany spoke each word with great solemnity, as if it were infallible and undying truth. She also had the alarming tendency to stand stock still at the front of the class, arms slightly outward, looking like a balanced pear as she belted out her lessons in a manner more commonly found in opera houses.

"Anyway, as for the fetishy thing they have for green---"

"Ms. Beany," interjected Cartman, who had clearly kept his words pent up until Wendy's arrival, "I have some concerns about Irish legislation - if you wouldn't mind addressing them, that is."

Ms. Beany nodded jerkily, a little perplexed that one of the students had something to add to the class.

"Is it true," he said, with a hurt and doe-eyed expression that said he knew damn well it was true and it was just eating him up inside, "that the Irish government has actually set a _ban_ on Muslim headdresses?"

_Oh my god, has Cartman been doing research?_

"Pretty sure, yeah," projected Ms. Beany.

"Why, that's terrible," said Cartman, hands protectively gripping his own veil as if it was in serious danger. "Their government doesn't even let them to wear what they wahnt?"

"I guess so."

"But, that's even worse than Wendy's radicalism!" he mourned. "Yeah, she's a bigot, but imagine if the whole government thought like her, you guys!"

"I'M the bigot?" yelled Wendy.

"Well, let's see," said Cartman, turning to face at her, angling his eyes ponderously to the ceiling. "You've been oppressing _me_ all day, treating me like I'm undeserving of respect just because of what I choose to wear..."

"Oh, god."

"You wanna force a whole country to ignore its heredity and customs, just because you have a little freedom complex..."

"There's TONS of protesters, Cartman!"

"Pffss. Maybe half a _year_ ago." Wendy opened her mouth to argue, but Cartman cut in again.

"We can all see through your flimsy little excuses about concern for Iranians. You're scared of them. You're scared of those Iranian terrorists and their wives, but you're no better than them yourself - you think hijacking our innocent American holiday is going to win any hearts?"

"Iran isn't full of terrorists!" she wailed. "It's a nation with an amazingly progressive youth population that doesn't deserve its brutal oppression! Hijabs were actually _illegal_ in Iran before the Revolution brought in an Islamic government. They've regressed, and we need to join them in reclaiming their lost freedom!"

"Ever thought of sexual decency, Wendy? We don't all wanna dress like sluts, you know. Some of us don't appreciate being harassed and raped. I mean, it's fine if that suits you," he added, gesturing his eyes toward her modest grass-green turtleneck, "since clothes are your self expression and stuff, but if I don't wanna parade my hot body around like a whore, is that so wrong?"

"You know this has NOTHING to do with the class, Cartman."

Ms. Beany, who was feeling like a fish out of water, agreed: "Yes, Eric. Now let's get back to all that Irish crap."

"Actually," piped up the dapper voice of Pip, "I think I speak for my mates when I say I'm terribly interested in Irani current affairs, thanks duly to Wendy's remarkable activism!" He gave her a cheery smile. Wendy's jaw dropped in horror.

She turned to stare at her classmates and twenty some odd pins glinted back at her. It seemed Wendy had successfully converted the majority of the class. _Oh god, what have I done._

"Thank you, Pip. It's nice to know someone supports me, and my kind."

"There IS no 'YOUR KIND', Cartman! You're being a disgrace to Muslim peoples and you DON'T understand their culture!"

He guffawed. "Wha-ho, someone's being testy, Burger!"

A pun. That was crossing the line. Wendy stood out of her seat, hands flat on the desk to prop up her quaking torso.

"The only thing I truly hate," she hissed, "is your twisted brain. I'm sure you could come up with a regime more despicable than any on Earth if you tried, and yet you're playing the 'good' card, _again._ I have EVERY RIGHT to be mad."

"Well, what is it then, Wendy?" posed Cartman, darkly. "Why do you feel the need to lash out? Is it your secret hatred of Muslim culture? Your intolerance of personal expression?"

Wendy ground her teeth. Once upon a time, Cartman would've influenced the class. He would've gotten them riled up against her cause, with only some hair gel and meager MS Paint skills at his disposal. But they were too old for that now; not mature, just apathetic and easily won over by whoever had the upper hand. Wendy had the upper hand; she was winning, she was changing the school's perspective, but still Cartman felt the need to be a dick. She realized, now, that it wasn't about winning for Cartman. He was toying with her. And she was playing into his hands; she was toying right back.

She straightened her shoulders, sat primly back down in her seat, closed her eyes and filled her lungs. She was mature, collected; high above that echelon of asshattery that Eric occupied. But when she reopened her eyes, there he was, just begging for her to unleash her childish rage upon him. And, she realized grimly, she was happy to oblige.

As she jumped back up to expel a volley of curses and furious rebuttals, each of which made Cartman beam a little brighter, Token watched, sitting forgotten in the back of the class, and wondered if he understood the girl as well as he thought he did.

---

The sky was blue and all the snow was green as the inmates of South Park High ran out the front doors to the incessant _ding_ing of the electronic school bell.

"That day took entirely too long."

"Well, hey, it's over," said Stan, galloping joyously down the steps. "And now we are going to coop ourselves up in my house playing Xbox."

"Oh god, it's about time," grinned Kyle. "I think if I see any more green, I'm going to go ballistic."

"Really? Again?"

Kyle bounced along, visualizing his near future. "Maybe a nice dirt-colored FPS... ooh, we're gonna need a lot of blood, since it's the complement to green and all." He froze suddenly. "Wait, did you see that?"

Stan cocked an eyebrow. "See what?"

Scanning the ground anxiously, Kyle half-murmured, half-laughed, "I... I thought I saw a leprechaun."

"Oh, yeah. I think Bebe did that."

"WHAT?"

Stan had to hide his amusement; Kyle had an irrational fear of leprechauns ever after certain events had unfolded in the fourth grade.

"Just some chemistry accident. It's no big deal, Kyle, don't worry."

They strolled on in silence, Kyle leaning slightly into Stan while he kept a wary eye on the ground. Stan's laughter eventually faded, and he felt massively relieved: his crazy high school, his mystery-status girlfriend, the pressures of academia - they were all behind him, literally, as he and his best friend walked toward an afternoon of remorseless sloth.

He felt Kyle prod his side.

"Umm..."

Stan spun to look at him, suddenly nervous for reasons he couldn't identify.

"What?"

"You know how I said I didn't want any more green?" Kyle smiled. "Well, there is _one_ thing..."

---

A ring had formed around four students. The students of SPH had a tendency to cluster around any remotely interesting activity, forming green bacteria-like colonies. On one side stood Kenny and Craig, distraught and half-drunk (the half being Kenny), and whining incoherently at the other two. The other two were Wendy and Cartman.

"You've ruined everything with your activism," bitched Craig. "No one asked you to get all proactive-ey today!"

"I don't see anyone else complaining, Craig!"

"Whatever, Wendy. I just think if you and Cartman want to have feel-bad-about-the-Middle-East day, have it in your OWN time from now on."

Wendy blanched. "Do NOT lump me in with him!"

Cartman just stood back, loving every chaotic second.

"Why not? You both totally missed the point – no, you _demolished_ the point," Craig shot back, his voice more choked up than ever now that he was on the verge of tears.

"It's St. Patrick's Day! _What_ point?"

"SEH-HEH-HEEEEEX", sobbed Kenny. He was kneeling on the ground, wracked with misery. "I'm _Iiiirish _but now the girls think I'm some kind of demon cuz I'm not wearing a _toogaaa_."

They're called 'thobes'," said Cartman, ever glad to be of help. Wendy would have glared at him if her glaring muscles weren't so tired.

"I just wanted to LOOOVE," cried Kenny.

"I just wanted to tell people they were _wrong_," moaned Craig.

Off to the side, Tweek was weeping.

This was, perhaps, a bad time for Stan and Kyle to jut their way into the circle, but then they had no idea exactly what was going on in the middle – only that Kenny and Cartman, both being drama fiends, were probably in there somewhere.

"Oh, wow," said Kyle, when he first saw the scene. Wendy was mussed and flustered, Craig was whining histrionically, and Kenny was a stained orange ball in the foetal position. Kyle approached him gingerly, laying a hand on the blubbering boy's back.

"Kenny?"

_soooob_

"Kenny. I need my hat back now."

_SOOOOB_

Kyle sighed impatiently. He stood up and gave Stan a look.

"Shouldn't you wait until he's sober?"

"Stan, he'll have forgotten everything he _did_ today once he's sober."

"Right. Hey," said Stan, turning to face the closest person who wasn't a mass of tears, "we're looking for Kyle's… hat…"

He was speaking to Wendy, who looked up at him through red rimmed eyes.

"Oh. Umm, sorr---"

"God, _Stan_," she snapped, and Stan realized suddenly that it was very, very wrong to assume someone was emotionally stable just because they weren't crying. "If you hadn't noticed, there's apparently some sort of crisis going on, and it's all my fault for trying something original."

_Oh god. I think this is it._

Wendy bit down harshly on her bottom lip and managed a weary glower at Craig and Kenny. Then she turned it onto Stan. "I guess that's what I get for trying to get through to this thick-headed school's thick-headed kids' _thick heads_."

_She's angry at me. She's going to; I KNOW she's going to…_

She paused and finally appeared to be looking directly at Stan for the first time that day. Or at least at his shirt. "Stan," she said, her voice cracking with distress, "where's your _pin?_"

_Shit, that's the last straw! It's time – she's gonna break up wi_

"Okay, hold it everyone. Just STOP."

Kyle had raised his arms and voice and was staring crossly out at the crowd from the middle of the ring. Since Stan had been looking increasingly like he was about to implode, and since there was no sign of his hat being found, he decided to try and put the scene on pause. It wasn't like it was the first time he had to talk some sense into a bowl full of morons.

"From the second I walked into school – okay, wait, no, since _before_ I walked into school today, I've seen people doing nothing but talking about their stupid clothes. Or hair. NO," he hollered over the one remaining kid who was wondering aloud about Kyle's possible Irish ethnicity.

"They said Butters won't be leaving the hospital for two more days at least. Just think about that. Why the hell did we do that to him?" Cartman suddenly had a hacking cough that sounded oddly like "_fag-mo_".

"And Kenny. Wendy. Tweek. Scott Malkinson. _Everybody_," he said, looking out at the more fraught members of the mob, "ended up damaged, somehow, from this silly little holiday. That doesn't seem right at all. It's understandable for Halloween; Thanksgiving, maybe, if you've ever been to Cartman's grandma's house. His family's like hyenas or something."

"AY."

"But come on people. What about in Ireland? They're still just going about their lives and getting shitfaced. In Iran? They're still protesting and beating up protesters and whatever. Do they care about us? Do they have any idea we put so much misguided thought into _them_?"

The crowd was quiet as they let that sink in. Kyle really wished he'd remembered to buy that soda; it was too damn hot for March.

"Restricting people based on what they want to wear or not wear, whether it's de facto" - he gestured to Craig - "or de jure" - he gestured to Iran, which was in the East, to his understanding - "is always an outrageous and medieval way to run a society."

"What about school uniforms and business suits and stuff?"

Kyle opened his mouth at Clyde, who had spoken, then closed it again until he could think of a good response.

"…well, it's medieval if you _beat_ them for going against the norm. And that includes pinching," Kyle said, meaningfully, to Craig.

"Now shake hands," he said, as an afterthought. It seemed like a nice diplomatic way to end the whole fiasco.

Craig and Wendy awkwardly latched their right hands together and bobbed them robotically before repelling away, as if burned. "Wait, I don't get it," said Craig. "So are we supposed to stop dressing up and having dress codes, or what?"

"Oh, no, I'm saying make up whatever stupid rules you want; just please don't brawling and bawling all over the place. It's creepy." He smiled at Craig, who nodded.

"Fair enough."

"Oh, um, Kyle," said Craig, as he was turning to leave. "I saw Kenny with your hat, and he kind of burned it. With beer. And a match."

Kyle looked rather dismayed. "Oh. Okay…" he brightened a little. "No, really, it's okay. It's sort of symbolic in a way; letting go of our green, head-covering history and accepting, um, the future." He scratched his head. "Which doesn't involve hats, or something. I don't know. I'm tired."

Craig nodded again, mildly confused, and walked off as the crowd began to filter away.

"Got like ten more of them at home, anyway. And Stan? What's your problem?"

Stan was churning with internal conflict and his face, fittingly, was a sickly green.

"W… Wendy won't… break…"

"Oh, that," said Kyle, flooded with understanding. "Wendy? Stan breaks up."

---

After Kyle and Stan ran off together to celebrate Stan's renewed bachelorhood with some Modern Warfare 2, the crowd dispersed, some of them shrugging off green garments and most of them not bothering to.

Soon the only remaining figures were Wendy, Cartman, and Kenny, who was curled up cat-like and snoozing quite peacefully on the moist green dirt.

Wendy looked a little shell-shocked. Her eyes were on the ground, her hand lightly gripping the few remaining lollipops. Cartman shivered; the dirt clearing had the feel of a ghost-town, clammy and unwanted, given the rapidity with which it had been abandoned.

He let out an awkward laugh to fill the silence. "Pfaha, guess that asshole Stan is still waiting for his balls to drop."

Wendy slowly turned her eyes upward, her face devoid of emotion, though she looked drained. Something inside Cartman compelled him to elaborate.

"Just ditching you on the spot there – but through his _friend_, the pussy. Guy's a dick."

"He sure is a lot of pieces of anatomy, huh."

Cartman was surprised that Wendy didn't seem remotely broken. It must have shown on his face, because she smirked slightly.

"I don't mind. It's really my fault for not cutting it off sooner."

"You bet, ho."

Wendy's eyes twinkled and she resumed her livid attitude. "Oh, for christ's sake, Cartman," she said, socking her fist into his well-padded stomach. "Do you ever stop being an asshole?"

"Good question. Sounds like one of those zen hippie riddles. If some trees die and bla bla bla."

"Pffft." Wendy rolled her eyes. "Take that stupid thing off your face."

Before Cartman had time to protest, she yanked away the veil, revealing tinged cheeks.

"Ay! I need that!" he cried, face darkening slightly.

Wendy grinned. "Did you listen to a word that Kyle said?"

"Who do you think you're talking to?"

She reached up and pecked Cartman on the cheek too quickly for him to properly register it.

"Some stupid asshole."

Cartman gaped. Then he attempted to fight off a grin. He lost.

"You better believe it."


End file.
